A Study in Grief (songs of despair before the joy)
by Mally O'Jack
Summary: Three years to the day of the fall, John tries to write about his life post-Sherlock. Little does he know that Sherlock is on his way (staggering, swaying) towards Baker Street.


This story looks at what life is like for John minus Sherlock. It's set literally hours before the events of the reunion as described in my previous stories 'Grace Notes' and 'The Deepest Secret'.

I used a mash-up of the Chilean poet Pablo Neruda's poems (which are in italics) and quotes from the series (in quotation marks) as well as my own words. I realise Pablo Neruda wrote a long time ago, about different subject matters, but his beautiful poems just seemed shot through with Sherlock and John and their ("guy love") epic friendship.

I'd really love to hear any thoughts, insights or comments you have on this story.

**A Study in Grief **_**(songs of despair before the joy)**_

by Mally O'Jack

* * *

_"When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time." - John Irving _

_"There should be a statute of limitation on grief. A rulebook that says it is all right to wake up crying, but only for a month. That it's okay to measure the time she has been gone, the way we once measured her birthdays." - Jodi Picoult _

* * *

It is three years to the day that Sherlock fell, and John is contemplating a blog post to mark the occasion. He stares at the computer screen. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes are dark.

0-0-0

My life before Sherlock

He was so alone; his life defined by what he had lost.

_I'm of no use, I do not know_

_anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,_

_I do not live in this house._

_My mouth is full of night and water._

_The abiding moon determines_

_what I do not have._

My life with Sherlock

It was the running, and the not-running, and the everything in between. It was the times spent in cafes with him doing the eating and Sherlock with the watching-him-eat. It was the illumination of the crime and the danger of the chase and the explosion of the solution. It was the times when he was on his laptop and Sherlock was on the sofa, or when Sherlock was in the kitchen and he was in his armchair. It was the bickering about the milk and the heads in the fridge and the _poppy-petalled metaphysics. _It was the sheer delight of simply being around Sherlock.

"Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield."

_In your life I see everything that lives._

My life after Sherlock

He is surrounded by light. He is anchored to people who care, like Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and Lestrade, and even (heaven help him) Mycroft. It's like Sherlock has left him with a community of people; people he says hi to in the street, like Angelo, and Raz, and people who email him, like Henry Knight, and Jacob Sowersby. His life is so full.

And yet...

_I don't want so much misery._

_I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,_

_alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,_

_half frozen, dying of grief._

He often wakes to find that he is weeping.

_The memory of you emerges from the night around me. _

_I remembered you with my soul clenched_

_in that sadness of mine that you know._

_Always, always you recede through the evenings_

_toward the twilight erasing statues._

And he thinks:

_How can I put myself together?_

My life now

He visits Sherlock's grave every Sunday. And during the week, he sees Sherlock everywhere; in a crowd, in a cafe, on the tube. Glimpses of Sherlock that make his heart leap.

_I hunt for a sign of you in all the others..._

_Then it's your hair that passes by, and I think_

_I see your image, a bonfire, burning in the water._

Sometimes he dreams that Sherlock has returned.

_I, who knew him, saw him descend..._

_I turn to see him, and I await him_

_I see him in his grave and resurrected._

_I searched for him among tombs, and I said_

_grasping his arm that was not yet dust:_

_'All will be gone, you will live on,_

_You ignite life.'_

Things he said to Sherlock that will always stay with him:

"Sergeant Donovan. She said you were a psychopath. That you get off on it."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone, because no one else can compete with my massive intellect!"

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Idiot."

"Spectacularly ignorant."

"Annoying dick."

"Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice."

"You machine."

And the things he wished he'd said:

_I love you. As certain dark things are to be loved,_

_in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you. Without knowing how, or when, or from where._

_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_

_so I love you because I know no other way._

0-0-0

John looks away from the blank computer screen, notices half-heartedly that the bulb has blown above him. He is so past caring.

_His soul clenches._

Sherlock.

_Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?_

* * *

As John sits in the darkness of Baker Street and thinks about the blog post he will never write, Sherlock is disposing of the last of Moriarty's men, and he is smiling a grim smile even though his head is bleeding, because now John is truly safe.

_In this part of the story I am the one who_

_Dies, the only one..._

All of them are safe.

_...and l died of love because I love you,__  
__Because I love you...in fire and blood._

And now Sherlock forces his weary body to turn towards the direction of Baker Street. Some might choose to call his existence these last three years a noble one, but Sherlock calls it a necessity.

"Don't make me into a hero, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."

_What more can they tell you?_

_I am neither good nor bad but a man,_

_and they will then associate the danger_

_of my life, which you know_

_and which with your passion you shared._

And now, amidst the hustle and bustle of London, the roar of the traffic and the chitter and chatter of the small people living their small lives, Sherlock is turning the corner into Baker Street.

_My struggle is harsh and I come back_

_with eyes tired_

_at times from having seen_

_the unchanging earth..._

And he is passing familiar shops and doorways and cafes, until -

_It is I,_

_who knocks at your door._

_It is not the ghost, it is not_

_the one who once stopped_

_at your window._

He is finally here.

_I knock down the door:_

_I enter your life._

* * *

_Finis_


End file.
